


All Before a Glass of Wine

by LatteWolf



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: (almost) Domestic, (referenced) Dante's Inferno, Bryan Fuller my entire soul is in your hands please let me feel joy again, Canon Compliant, Cooking, Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, M/M, Romantic Fluff, Season/Series 03, They do not do it, Unresolved Sexual Tension, wild i know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 06:38:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18845662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LatteWolf/pseuds/LatteWolf
Summary: Takes place between reaching the cliff and the battle with Dolarhyde in Hannibal's escape house. Will is a dumb, giddy, little gremlin of a man and he deserves to be happy with his murder mans. No smut, but loooots of tension. As per usual with these two.





	All Before a Glass of Wine

They had finished talking quite a long time ago, but as time passed, Will found himself unable to move from his spot overlooking the bluff. The fear of falling into the violent tides and rocks below was calming, and the presence next to him was warm. The sound of waves crashing against the cliffside was deafening, but not nearly as much as Hannibal's quiet breaths behind him. There was silence for a few more moments.

“It's going to be dark soon, and it would be wise to be inside before the Dragon comes.”

There was an exchange of nods, a chuckle, and they strode to the house side-by-side. Something about this was exciting, though Will didn't show it, in how for the first time in years they've been exchanging words just for each other— their plans, their conversations— it all felt light-hearted and unrestrained despite their situation. Will had been waiting to speak to him without tension, heartbreak, or the peering eyes of Alana and Jack. It was familiar. Pleasant.

“Lost in thought, Will?”

Hannibal was clearly preparing to cook something, tying an apron around his waist and smoothing it over his white jumpsuit with elegant hands. Will looked up from his spot draped across the couch and tried to sit up, struggling against the dull aching from the crash. Hannibal's eyes looked genuinely inquisitive without a hint of ulterior motive. The first in a long time.

“It's going to be a matter of time until this all plays out. The ending—”

“Or beginning.”

“Or beginning, of the rest of our lives. I was just thinking about… what that might be. Given the circumstances, there are only so many ways this can go.”

Hannibal smiled fondly at ‘our lives’ as he dumped a dish of pasta into a boiling pot. His hands moved so swiftly, and with such purpose, it would've been easy to imagine them in other scenarios acting with such vigor. Not that Will was, of course. He waited for the marinara to heat and leaned his back against the countertop, eyes up in thought until they rested on Will again.

“Could you see a scenario where we both live? What do you imagine our lives would be, then?”

“Hardly, and probably not much different from your life with Bedelia.”

“I think I could sacrifice a bit of safety to have a more comfortable life with you than Bedelia. We sadly wouldn't be able to be in Europe, as I would like to show you Italy, but South America would be just as nice and allow for a bit of breathing room. I admit my arrogance got the best of me last time, but Bedelia didn't spark as big a need for caution in me.”

Will knew what he was doing. He knew that was all a lie and Hannibal could never stop wanting to manipulate him and see just how much of him he could control. His own interests would always be his priority, even if they lived together or even if he really was in love. Some irrational part of him, though, just wanted to be with Hannibal in a thatch hut in Cuba overlooking the glistening coast, holding him tightly and whispering that nothing will ever be more important in his life than him.

He figures that part must have been the part of him that's been making his decisions as of late.

A few moments passed.

“What are you making?”

A smile.

“Manicotti, drizzled with marinara and stuffed with ricotta cheese and veal.”

Funny. After all this time, there was always that silent, mutual agreement. Even if there hadn't been a small pause before Hannibal said "veal" and his naturally subtle, tight-lipped smile, he'd have known. One of the few consistent things you could always rely on Hannibal for doing— it was still there. Simmering below the surface.

“Do you need help with anything?”

Hannibal smiled and tied off a plastic bag stuffed with the ricotta filling, snipping off a corner and delicately holding it out with both palms as Will sauntered over to him, one eyebrow raised.

“I bestow upon you the honor of filling the pasta.”

Will laughed, smooth and breathy, taking it in his hands delicately.

Moving to stand behind him, Hannibal closed the distance between them and gently put his hands around Will's to guide them. He knew Hannibal could feel his pulse quicken under his fingers, and quiet excitement bubbled low in his stomach.

“You want to hold it like this, with the longer end at the bottom. Put your hands— like this, yes— and squeeze gently until you can feel the filling at the other end. Good, now add just a dollop at the front end; make a swirl for presentation if you'd like.”

Their hands moved together, and it was so intimate and casual, fluid in motion, and each yielding to each other's movement. Will followed along enthusiastically, decorating each big roll of pasta with deft and precision he knew enchanted Hannibal; the light hums and the occasional squeeze of his fingers showering him with praise. His hands, his perfect surgeon's hands. The hands of a harpsichord-player, a wine-taster, a chef—

A killer.

When he was done, he set the half-empty bag down and arranged the dishes with what little range of motion Will had, but once he tried to step away, Hannibal didn't allow him to. Will's heartbeat, which had calmed down significantly, started to pick up again and Hannibal just held him there, very present behind him.

Will should have panicked. He should have done several things that he unsurprisingly didn't. This was a different kind of panic, feeling more akin to anticipation. But it was still warm. It was still familiar.

Several moments passed that felt like entire lifetimes, Will engulfed in thought and a hint of worry. The silence and proximity felt comfortable; like something he'd had for the years they've been apart, pressed between the layers of glass and fear. Something he could only have with Hannibal.

“We don't want the food to get cold.”

His voice rumbled deep, and Will nearly sobbed at the painful loss of contact. Hannibal's hands slowly drifted towards the dish, and he walked towards the table and set it down with a thud, lingering there for almost a full minute. His hands are clenched ever so slightly, just enough for Will to tell he's trying to hold on to something, keep it back. Not let himself go.

Is it wrong that he wants him to?

Will sits down at the table, trilling his stiff fingers on the edge and watching every inch Hannibal moves seated across from him. The way he tenses and places himself like fine china on the seat, Will can tell they're back into The Game. The back and forth, the carefully crafted sentences, the tension, and hunger that suffocates a room- the one they used to play at every encounter. Well, all except for the last few they've shared.

This isn't what Will wants. Playing The Game is a restriction, a scale teetering between two fractions of a pound, emotions held back and bubbling under the lid of the pot. He's tired of it, the layers and screens of smoke. Will wants them both to let go and submit to themselves; break the many sheets of glass and writhe in the shards, lay together in the yarn which was once the taught strings between them, and both physically and spiritually embody the Ouroboros with it's winding, eternal unbridled hunger—

“Are you going to eat?”

Will's head snaps up, and his train of thought is abruptly halted. Right, of course. Here, Hannibal, dinner, on the run, Dolarhyde, Jack, Alana, everything. Then the Everything is back.

“Sorry I was… somewhere else.”

“I invite you back to the table, Will. How was your trip?”

Will ponders.

“Revealing.” He says. There's a hint of triumph in his voice.

“As all good trips are,” Hannibal adds.

“And all bad,” Will replies.

There's a silent agreement at that, and they both finish eating in silence. Once the table is cleared Will retires back to the couch, Hannibal going to take a shower without a word. Will pulls his legs up onto the cushions and crosses his legs, tracing his index finger around the outer edge of a book he picked up from the coffee table. It's in Italian, so he can only pick out a few words. A thought pops up that he'd like Hannibal to read it to him. He swats it away.

He listens for movement from the bathroom, hearing only the running of the water. He imagines it dripping down Hannibal's shoulders, forming pools sound his feet. It washes away with his thoughts down the drain. Will thumbs a page over and over again, staring at his nail, then abruptly closes the book, placing it on the couch like a crown on a silk pillow. He stares at the title etched into the velvet cover one last time, "Divina Commedia," before parting to the bedroom.

Will spreads out onto the silky sheets, raking his fingers across what must be impossibly high thread-count pillowcases. He looks around and feels foolish for just now noticing- the canopy, the deep red hue, the unused candles, the sultry figures taking up the sculptures and the frames- and wonders the nature of this room, or if it was always this way.

Will is well caught up in the finer details of the patterns and themes when the running water stops. He doesn't notice at first, laying starfished with a curtain entangled in his arms, when Hannibal steps in, towel around his waist and nothing else.

If you didn't know him, you would be none the wiser to all his infinitely subtle tells. The very slight pull of his mouth, the smallest flinch of his shoulder, the unnoticeable twitch of his hand. Will notices. He doesn't know if Hannibal knows that, but in his experience, he doesn't know when to accept defeat anyway.

The man was still a smug bastard behind bullet-proof glass.

And God, he loves him.

Hannibal smiles at him.

Did he say that out loud?

"D-did I say that out loud?"

"You didn't have to."

Hannibal takes his stupidly elegant strides towards him and sits on the very edge of the bed in front of Will, head turned partially to him.

"If this is something you want, you know you can't take it back," Hannibal says without warning.

"I. Uh. Um. I don't... I think I don't know?" Will says. More like blabbers uncontrollably.

"That's not a yes," Hannibal replies.

"What... What about you? What do you think?"

"I think the culmination of what we are is not going to happen right now. It will be something, but not this. It will be something... For us. And just us. But I don't believe it is my decision to make," Hannibal says. 

Will lets that settle in his gut. He doesn't want this to end, ever, but he doesn't know if it can continue. What he found; what they discovered together, it's something he doubts has ever been. Not on this Earth- their Earth. As much as he hates that, he also accepts it. And he likely has since the beginning without knowing it.

"I want... Can you read me something? Doctor Lecter?"

"That book in my living room you couldn't take your eyes off of? And for good reason. It's the Divine Comedy. Dante's Inferno. I always keep a spare in each of my houses, along with an Achilles and Patroclus is, among others. Do you have a passage in mind?" Hannibal asks.

"Just, um. Start from the beginning," Will replies. He at least remembers the first sentence from a lesson somewhere in high school English. Hannibal scoots back and lays next to him on his back, folding his hands and setting them on his chest. He makes no move to go and get the book, and Will thinks to himself that, of course, Hannibal Lecter can recite Dante's Inferno from memory. He'd expect no less.

"Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita  
mi ritrovai per una selva oscura,  
ché la diritta via era smarrita," Hannibal starts.

Okay maybe saying he remembered any of that book was a stretch.

He'll remember this though. Forever.

Hannibal continues in his sultry Italian accent, no hesitation, no stumbling, no tribulation with his memory. He speaks with purpose, but not like how he has before; different, less sure, but more content. Freer. At some point, Will loses focus on his words and just watches his mouth move around the syllables. He eventually sees his hand moving towards Hannibal's, which Will doubts he could stop if he wanted to. Hannibal goes quiet for a minute, and grabs Will's trembling hand that's hovering a few inches from his own and places it on his own chest. Will can feel his heartbeat under his hand, betraying his calm, collected facade.

Hannibal brings Will's hand up to his mouth and pecks the back of it softly, laying it back down. After, he continues his reading. Will doesn't know how long they lie there together, as all sense of time leaves him without so much as a word. Will thinks, though maybe vulgar that this one moment here with Hannibal beside him, merely existing, is better than the best sex he's ever had. He tries not to let that slip or insinuate that with even the slightest change of his eyes; he's sure Hannibal would revel at the thought.

Soon, sure that he's halfway through Dante, Will falls asleep on his side, curled perfectly against Hannibal's side. They seem to fit together in all things, Will can't tell if he whispers verbally or in his head. Either way, Hannibal would know. He sleeps there for a good few hours, no dreams, no sweating, no cold, empty feelings of grief and fear. Just silky red bed sheets and the man he loves.

But all good things must come to an end.

Hannibal places his hand on Will's cheek and carefully wakes him, fully dressed with another set of clothes draped over his forearm like a waiter. He smiles fondly.

"How would you like a glass of wine?"

"Right about now? Already in a glass."

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all know how much The Lecter™ loves his Dante. I had to. Totally not because I'm an uncultured swine and that's the most basic Italian book I could shoe-horn into this to make myself look smart. Once again, brought to you by Grammarly and a LOT of time spent not paying attention in Drama or Health. Hoping my depictions of the murder men are pretentious enough. Kthxbye.


End file.
